He’d debated calling Rencke last night after he’d failed to reach Yemlin. But Rencke would be unable to tell him anything he didn’t already know. Yemlin’s position had been discovered, and by now he was either dead or under arrest.
There was an outside chance that Chernov knew about the calls to the phone booth near Yemlin’s apartment, in which case McGarvey’s call had not been answered by a chance passerby, but had been picked up by an FSK technical unit. It was even possible that they’d traced the call to this apartment building.
But the Latvians actively hated Russians. All Russians. So not only wouldn’t they cooperate with a commission trying to stop the man who was planning to assassinate Tarankov, they’d probably throw up road blocks.
It was on this thought that McGarvey had finally gone to sleep last night. And it was this thought now that nagged at him. Someone was coming, with or without the cooperation of the Latvian authorities. If he got involved in some kind of a confrontation with Chernov, whatever the outcome, the Latvians would try to arrest them all, and someone would get hurt.
He turned away from the window and got dressed in a dark turtleneck sweater and slacks. The bolstered gun went in the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back, and the silencer and spare magazine went in the pockets of his leather jacket. He left everything else, including his clothes, his shaving gear and other toiletries, and the overnight bag. If anyone came up here they might believe that he’d just stepped out and was planning on returning. It might give him a few extra hours.
Checking the street again to make sure no one had shown up, he took his laptop computer down to the Volkswagen, and drove over to the secured garage near the train station, where he switched cars for the Mercedes. Before the VW was reported missing by the rental agency, the operation would be long finished, and McGarvey would drop the keys and a note where the car could be found in a mailbox somewhere.
By 6:30 a.m.” he was having breakfast on the outskirts of the city, with several hours to kill. He did not want to’ cross the border at Zilupe until late this afternoon, when the customs officers he’d dealt with before would be at the end of their shift, and therefore impatient to take his bribe and get home.
It was past 8:00 a.m. when the Tupolev jet transport carrying Chernov, Petrovsky, Gresko and a couple of Militia detectives was finally cleared to taxi from the holding ramp over to a customs and immigration hangar. Latvian officials had held them for over an hour and Chernov was beside himself with rage.
Riga Police Lieutenant Andrejs Ulmanis, and his dour faced sergeant Jurin ZarinS were waiting for them. Chernov forced himself to remain calm as they all shook hands, but the tension and animosity were very thick.
“We surrounded the building forty-five minutes ago, as you requested, but so far there’s been no sign of the man you are looking for,” Lieutenant Ulmanis said, leading them over to a police van for the ride into the city. He was a heavyset man with thinning sand-colored hair and a double chin.
“Considering the political conditions between our countries, we thank you for your help,” Chernov said, carefully.
Ulmanis eyed him distastefully. “Murder is a terrible crime, and we’re all police officers, ja?”
“This one is very bad. He specializes in little boys.”
The Latvian policeman’s jaw tightened. “I wasn’t clear on his nationality. His name is Kisnelkov. Is he Russian or Ukrainian?”
“He’s a Russian,” Chernov said. “But he may be traveling on an American or a French passport under another name. The son of a bitch is good, he always manages to keep one step ahead of us.”
“What’s he doing in Latvia?”
“Trying to get away. Last week he raped and killed three young boys in Moscow. When he was finished he mutilated their bodies in ways that even you as a police officer would not believe.”
“How did you find out he was here?”
“He tried to make a telephone call to a friend last night and we traced it.”
“If he’s here, we’ll find him,” Ulmanis said.
“Don’t make a mistake about this one,” Chernov cautioned. “Six months ago we thought we had him cornered. When it was all over, he’d killed two policemen, wounded three others and got away clean.”
Ulmanis nodded.
“If you or your people come face-to-face with him, don’t hesitate to shoot him like a dog,” Chernov said.
“A Russian dog,” Sergeant Zarins” muttered, and Ulmanis shot him a dirty look but did not reprimand him.
Twenty minutes later they pulled up at the end of the block from the apartment building. The intersections at both ends of the street had been barricaded. Police cars, blue lights flashing, completely surrounded the block. Officers in riot gear were stationed on the roof tops and in the doorways of every building within sight. Some of the cops were dispersing the crowds of curious onlookers, while other cops milled around apparently waiting for something to happen.
Chernov and the others got out of the van. He glanced at Petrovsky. “He’s gone.”
Lieutenant Ulmanis came over. “Not unless he was tipped off.”
“Nothing against your capable police procedures, Lieutenant, but when the first of your people showed up, he would have spotted them and slipped away before the area could be secured. He’s gone.”
“I don’t think so.”
Chernov took out his pistol, checked the load, then reholstered the gun. “Well, I’m going to walk over there and search the building. Would you care to come with me?”
“I’ll go with you, but we’ll take a few of my people with us just in case you’re wrong.”
Chernov shrugged and marched down the street to the apartment building and went inside The Latvian cops were hoping that they might get to see a Russian blown away this morning. Ambulances were standing by.
The landlady, a taciturn old woman, came out of her ground floor apartment, and Ulmanis asked her a number of questions about her tenants, and about her rent control permits, a subject on which she was vague.
Chernov walked over to the foot of the stairs and cocked an ear. The building was quiet.
“That’s him,” the old woman said.
Chernov turned back. Ulmanis had shown McGarvey’s photograph that had been faxed down here this morning.
“What is his name?” Chernov asked.
“Pierre something,” the old woman said resentfully. “He paid for a month in cash a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t care what his name was.”
Ulmanis came over. “I thought you said he killed some kids in Moscow last week?” he asked in a low voice.
“He must have returned here to hide out,” Chernov said.
He took out his gun and went up to the top floor, taking the stairs two at a time. Ulmanis and the other Latvian cops came up behind him, their weapons drawn.
At the top Chernov flattened himself against the wall next to the apartment door and listened for a full two minutes, but there were no sounds from within.
On signal, one of Ulmanis’s people kicked the door in, and they all rushed into the empty apartment.
“He’s gone,” Ulranis said, unnecessarily. There was no place to hide in the tiny apartment.
The Latvian cops searched the apartment anyway.
“Maybe not for long, Lieutenant,” one of the cops called from the bathroom. He appeared in the doorway. “His toothbrush and razor are still here.”
One of the other cops opened the wardrobe. “His clothes are here, and a suitcase.”
“There’s food in the cupboards and the refrigerator,” the cop in the tiny kitchen reported.
“Maybe he’s coming back,” Ulmanis said.
“Not with all those policemen outside,” Chernov said. He took off his jacket and laid it over the back of the chair. “Place a couple of your men downstairs in the landlady’s apartment, and a couple of sharpshooters in an apartment across the street. But tell them to keep out of sight. Get rid of everybody else. In the meantime I’ll wait here for awhile.”
“What about your people?” Ulmanis asked.
“Send them back to the airport to wait for me.”
